Category: Virtual Offerings

Kimber Ludiker (fiddler, second from right) and Avril Smith (guitarist, far left) dedicate their Monday nights to delivering a “hoedown” for their friends and fans

Desperate to find a concert livestream on a Monday night, I stumbled upon Della Mae, a bluegrass girl group that has been hosting a Facebook Live Hoedown every Monday since COVID-19 sent us all into quarantine. Founded by fiddle player Kimber Ludiker, vocalist/guitarist Celia Woodsmith, and mandolinist Jenni Lyn Gardner, the band has featured various female guitarists, bassists, and singers since its creation in 2009. According to their website, “[Della Mae’s] mission as a band is to showcase top female musicians, and to improve opportunities for women and girls through advocacy, mentorship, programming, and performance.” In a male-dominated music scene and bluegrass genre, they stand out as not only an all-female group performing traditional folk music but also as musicians who promote the well-being of women and girls all over the world. Over the past eleven years, Della Mae has traveled to over 30 different countries, performing their music and inspiring girls to follow their passions, even if it means being one of very few women in a field.

Della Mae has produced four albums and their most recent, “Highlight,” a tribute to sexual assault survivors, came out this past year. Unfortunately, COVID-19 cut their tour short, leaving them without live venues to perform after their concert on March 12^th. This obstacle couldn’t stop these vibrant women from making music, though, which is what sparked Monday Night Hoedown. Inspired by other artists who were performing via Facebook Live, Kimber decided to start weekly hoedowns, playing her fiddle and accompanied by Avril Smith on guitar. The duo has persisted, not missing a week since they started back in March, performing bluegrass classics for their fans and friends on Facebook. Showered with praise from people in the comments, Kimber and Avril grinned and played requests for an hour and a half, the notes flying off their instruments as though the strings could sense the musicians’ fingers coming in for a pluck.

My experience watching the livestream was definitely unconventional – my laptop screencast to a TV in a study room on the second floor of an engineering building with one Airpod in my ear and the other in my friend’s – nonetheless, I was immersed in Kimber and Avril’s animated performance. Though talking to a computer screen, the two made me feel welcomed, as though they were treating me to an after-dinner jam session in their home. The tangy tones from the fiddle filled me with memories of campfire songs and Avril’s hearty guitar strumming kept me grounded. Even though these bluegrass tunes were new to me, I was captivated by every long note Kimber played on her fiddle, the warm sound of each pitch enchanting me as she drew her bow across the hearty strings. The two women breezed past notes rapidly, but never letting their cool demeanor fade. Kimber and Avril took turns being featured in each song, Kimber tapping her bow to supplement Avril with a beat and Avril strumming constant chords to back-up Kimber’s sprightly bowing. The music was lively, bringing just about anyone to tap their feet along to the guitar and fiddle.

Between songs, the women answered questions from the comments and greeted friends who frequent the weekly stream. The two were amicable and cheery, asking for requests from those watching and updating us on life changes – such as Kimber’s decision to participate in “Sobe-tober.” Kimber cracked a few jokes, saying that she was “just getting these fingers loosened up,” and apologizing for getting some notes wrong, while Avril reassured her that the wrong notes were simply personal interpretation of the song. The friendly exchanges between Avril and Kimber made me feel like I was part of their friend group and this was just another day with Della Mae. And just when the intermittent conversations seemed to be lasting too long, the pair would decide on a new song, strumming the first few chords and tuning the fiddle before jumping into another high-speed, high-energy number. Had I not been in a study pod, surrounded by strangers cramming for engineering tests, I would have gotten up and danced to the bubbly music that Kimber and Avril played.

One song that stuck with me was “Blue Violet Waltz,” the slowest tune of the set that had a familiar ring to it. Kimber randomly decided to play it, saying that an old friend had taught it to her, but she couldn’t remember the exact name. Luckily there were dozens of bluegrass fanatics in the comments, eager to offer the title of the song so that newbies like me could listen to it again later. The song felt like a lullaby to me – a song that I could drift to sleep to by a fireplace on a cold autumn night. The fiddle shifted seamlessly between bowed notes and plucked notes, the vibrato of the strings perfectly juxtaposed with the playful plucking that followed. While Kimber toyed with different techniques, staccato plucks, taps on the body of her instrument, and classic bow work, Avril kept a steady pace, playing sweet deep chords to cradle the fearless fiddle. Though the fiddle was notable in this piece for its versatility, Avril’s guitar was comforting, supplementing Kimber’s experimentation with gentle and familiar strumming.

Although COVID-19 has hurt performers particularly hard, Della Mae has demonstrated its resilience through their Monday Night Hoedowns. By taking what the musicians already had – a vast repertoire of bluegrass melodies, a loyal fanbase, and a solid social media presence – the band has continued to bring in revenue as well as provide entertainment for its audience. What could have been a hefty obstacle for the group has proven to be a catalyst for community, as the band has established themselves on Patreon and other streaming platforms over quarantine. Unlike a regular tour season, when the band would be on the road every day, traveling to perform for fans all over the country, Della Mae has been able to save themselves the exhaustion – and the gas – by performing on Facebook Live for fans from New Hampshire to Minnesota and beyond. While the experience is nowhere near the same as a live performance, fans get to communicate more intimately with Kimber and Avril during these hoedowns, asking questions and making requests in the comment bar. These weekly concerts provide a unique opportunity for both performer and listener, as Kimber and Avril talk openly about their experiences as musicians producing and performing music. Instead of the often disconnected ambience of a large concert venue, the Facebook Live Hoedown allows members of Della Mae to deliver beautiful songs in an intimate environment.

Della Mae has brilliantly exemplified how to perform during this socially-distant season, adapting sets to the digital age and taking this opportunity to grow closer to its audience. While more popular artists may have more listeners, Della Mae’s underground nature affords them with an intimate connection to those who listen to their music. Though I would love to hear more of their original pieces on the next livestream, the traditional bluegrass tunes highlight Kimber and Avril’s expertise in their instruments. Furthermore, newcomers like me get to hear the duo play the songs that inspire their own composition. If you’re looking for a livestream to start your week off right or just for something to dance along to on a Monday at 8, look no further than Della Mae’s Kimber and Avril’s Monday Night Hoedown.

The Ithaca College Jazz Vocal Repertory Ensemble offers a night filled with extraordinary talent and welcomed surprises for all music lovers to indulge in.

Improvisation in every form, the performance by the Jazz Vocal Repertory Ensemble had everything one could ask for. On the 27^th of January 2020 the ensemble, home to Ithaca College, put on a fantastic show that music-lovers from all walks of life could enjoy. A time when blissful concertgoers could enjoy the privilege of attending in-person concerts on a regular basis without having the fear of being infected by a deadly virus. Unfortunately, we no longer have the same privilege, but alas we have learnt to accept this change and grown accustomed to watching recorded concerts from the comforts of our own homes. As luck would have it, the performance was recorded and is accessible for all to relish on the Ithaca College School of Music 2019-2020 Archive webpage. Even if you are a casual listener of Jazz, I can guarantee you will enjoy the talent and exuberant energy the ensemble exudes. Directed by the gifted John W. White, an active and involved member of the Ithaca college community who has clearly cultivated a special relationship with his musicians, the performance does not lack in any aspect.

Allow me to preface my remarks about the extraordinary talent this ensemble possess by describing how the concert opens: Prior to the concert the conductor and his students spontaneously decided to ‘add a tune’ for the rhythm section, in light of the fact that it was a jazz concert. Of course, every jazz concert must contain at least one piece for the rhythm section, so this last-minute revelation was really no surprise. In case you are convinced that the spontaneity was a ploy to paint the musicians in a more talented light and impress the audience, let that doubt be put to rest as the piece was not even included in the program. With precise instruction to the ensemble, consisting of a piano, upright bass, and drum set, they proceed to perform ‘All The Things You Are’ perfectly, hitting every note with unmatched precision, leaving us to question the nature of their being; perhaps they are robots and the piece was programmed into their very being? This explanation may offer more merit than the idea that they are simply human like the rest of us. Each musician seems to have masterful control over their instrument, always on time and in tune. Throughout their performance, they glance at one another, as if speaking their own secret language through gestures and facial expressions, in order to communicate cues. An impressive feat given the fact that they are not paying full attention to their instrument when attempting to perform a rather musically and technically demanding piece. They casually trade improvisatory solos among themselves with such grace and ease that one can only assume they are all being controlled by a singular higher being. Every soloist has an unparalleled accuracy with pitch and sharp cut offs. Each solo speaks to the mastery and versatility of each member of the ensemble, demonstrating to the audience the immense amount of talent packed onto the tiny stage.

After the unplanned detour, the scheduled program begins as the jazz vocalists walk on, immediately commanding control of the stage. An ensemble of 10 female vocalists stand confidently in front of their music stands, ready to amaze. Starting with ‘One Note Samba’ by Antonio Carlos Jobim, the performers sway around enthusiastically to the driving beat of the music drenched in Latin flavor. The ensemble enters in unity, singing with clear diction and outstanding pitch. Sharp cutoffs and solid entrances make the performance professional-esque. Throughout the piece, they add musical variation by performing intriguing harmonies that include octaves and other, more complex, intervals. As soon as we are left feeling satiated with all the musical motifs that had been offered, a few different vocalists perform unique solos. Not just any type of solos, scat singing— vocal improvisation with wordless vocables, nonsense syllables or without words at all— a considerably harder form of singing. The soloists, one by one, walk up to center stage and start improvising their hearts out. Making up vocal melodies on the spot with an unparalleled amount of confidence and accuracy, leaving the audience in complete awe.

As the applause echo through the hall, White introduces the next song, ‘Route 66’ by Bobby Troop and promptly exits the stage. The piece opens with an emphatic bass solo, setting the tone and tempo for the rest of the performance. As the low notes reverberate throughout the concert hall, the bass is quickly joined by the drums and piano, setting the stage for the vocal ensemble to enter. Upon entrance the vocalists show off their expansive range by singing rather low notes. With fun little scoops and precise cut offs, the performance was definitely an enjoyable one. Like the last number, there was a section of scat singing once again but this time, with a surprise element. White jumps into the performance with some of his own improvised melodies from off-stage, leaving the audience completely stunned. Suddenly, there was an impromptu call and response happening between White and the three soloists on stage; it seconds the whole audience is in on it on-time claps and everyone singing, creating an energetic and delightful atmosphere. White seamlessly conducts the ensemble to end the improv section and proceed with the full-fledged chorale arrangement which is perfectly executed musicians and singers.

We then transition to the next piece, “Taking A Chance On Love.” It opens with a soloist, whose voice is strong yet tender, accompanied by lavish chords on the piano. Almost lullaby-like, the tranquil duo might just make your eyes start to fell heavy and induce a deep slumber. The jazz sound we have grown accustomed to then makes a prompt re-entry, knocking us back in our chairs. Instantly, we start to hear a chorus of voices singing jazz-like harmonies escorted by the driving rhythm section. For those who enjoy jazz and easy listening, this would be perfect to listen to. Upon completion, White converses with the audience briefly and comes up with a great segue into introducing the next song on the program, ‘There Is No Greater Love’ by Marty Symes & Isham Jones. Though the tempo seems to be quite erratic during the introduction, it seems to become steadier and easier to follow once the vocalists join in. Like all the other songs, the audience are left to the devices of the heavenly chorus accompanied with harmonies. Finally, we have a soloist perform her own vocal improvisation making use of random syllables and occasionally lyrics. From the depths of the tenor range to the sky-scarping altitude of the soprano range, her vocal scope seemed to be endless. It was so magnificent that the audience felt compelled to accompany her with claps as a vote of appreciation.

For the final number, White decided to end with an a cappella performance , Toyland by Glen MacDonaugh & Victor Herbert, in order to really emphasize the talent of his vocal ensemble. After giving a brief history lesson, and so graciously warning the audience that there would be a quiz on it, White gives a starting note and raises his hands to indicate the beginning of the end. What would easily be the most impressive vocal performance was to proceed. The ensemble had perfect diction which created a blend like no other; it was as if all their voices were combined together to form a single sound. Furthermore, they managed to remain on pitch throughout the performance, without the assistance of any external instrument, which in itself, is a spectacular feat. The melodies and countermelodies move effortlessly in unison, complimenting each other at every turn. With dynamic contrast and perfect timing, the piece had all the ingredients necessary to make it the highlight of the concert. The perfect end to a night filled with outstanding music. Whether or not you are fan of jazz, I can promise you that this ensemble will bring you copious amounts of joy.

Watch the performance here

 From the comforts of their own homes, the dynamic choirs create a magical virtual experience for all to enjoy.

During a time where we are confined to our homes and can no longer enjoy the wonders and connection of an in-person concert venue, The Treble Chorale and Choir from Ithaca College, did an outstanding job at trying to bridge this newly found gap. The extravagant performance was conducted by the celebrated and charismatic Janet Galván. Both groups cultivated a relaxing atmosphere with their casual clothing, smiley personality, and colorful backgrounds. Close to 45 members make up each group, all of whom exuberate excitement and enthusiasm. On May 11th, shortly after the arrival COVID-19 to the US, which quickly prompted the premature closure of colleges around the country, the Ithaca Choral community nimbly adapted to the new circumstances, and came together, stronger than ever before, to put on one last concert before the end of the Spring 2020 semester—it was for the history books. The lack of in-person interaction failed to take away from a decade-long tradition where the seniors are surrounded by their peers and sung to one last time. With the use of technology, they managed to continue this tradition despite the abnormal position they were put in. Not only were traditions withheld, but so was the quality of music produced from both of the ensembles.

The concert begins with The Treble Chorale performing a breathtaking rendition of ‘Blessing’ by Katie Moran Bart. Each voice seems to blend in perfectly together to form a heavenly and calming chorus. Naturally the mixing played a huge role in creating the heavenly sounds we hear, but that should not take away from the beautiful voices that make up the inconceivably talented ensemble. If you listen closely, you can hear their individual voices, all of which are just as beautiful as the next. The control, pitch and tone are otherworldly. One may think that trying to coordinate such a large group of singers would result in timing issues and other technical issues, but the group demonstrates that it is possible to create magical sounding music using technology.

The concert concludes with a powerful performance of ‘The World, This Wall, and Me’ by Michael Bussewitz-Quarm, performed by the Choir. Commenced with a strong opening by the male voices that creates the foundation of the piece; we immediately know we are in for a spectacular performance. Once the foundation had been established, the remaining voices enter, and suddenly we are transported to a different galaxy. The beautiful counterplay between the lower and higher voices creates an exquisite sound and introduces intriguing musical ideas. Like, the last performance, all the voices complement each other perfectly, and in unison create a majestic sound that will be talked about for years after this performance. The small section with the three soloists acted as the icing on the cake, showing the audience that there are very talented individual singers that make up the incredibly talented ensemble.  

I know you may feel frustrated watching this concert alone in your bedroom under the light of your single luminescent bulb, but it may be comforting to know that the members of both Treble Chorale and Choir did not get to enjoy the benefits of performing at a live venue either. Instead, they too were trapped to the confines of their own homes, where they produced and recorded the sounds necessary to fill their part. This concert was a powerful demonstration of the beguiling music that can be created from the comforts of your own home. Grim as it may seem, perhaps this is the future of ‘live’ concerts and perhaps, we may have to get used to it—at least for the foreseeable future. Whether this may be the case or not, the Treble Chorale and Choir from Ithaca College have certainly shown that it is possible.

Watch the performance here

Ben Folds celebrated his birthday with streamers, and they weren’t the kind hung from ceilings.

In a cramped apartment strewn with paper, instruments, and recording equipment, Piano Pop prodigy Ben Folds meanders into the camera frame. Without acknowledging his audience, he silently rearranges the clutter. Suddenly, tossing an over-the-shoulder grin at the camera, he lurches toward the computer. A tap on the spacebar arouses the microphone, prompting applause from the comments section. The curtains have parted on Folds’ livestream birthday show.

While America tuned in on the of evening Ben’s big day, Mr. Folds himself was waking up to the morning after—he had been stranded overseas in Sydney, Australia since the outset of the pandemic. The September 12^th show comes as the 14^th show in a series of Saturday night/Sunday morning concerts that Folds held from the makeshift studio of his temporary apartment.

Embracing the eccentricity of the moment, Folds kicked things off quirkily. Moving impishly about the room, he reached first for his fuzzy Ugg boots. After removing his cowboy hat to stretch a beanie over his bedhead, he cracked open a beer—it was, after all, 6 o’clock in the states. The entire ritual was scored with a kitschy theme song dedicated to “the scrollers.”

Finally, Folds settled at the keyboard to begin his set. Starting with a relaxed ballad, his playing gradually pressurized. Arpeggios accelerated; octaves grew weightier until Folds was in the full throes of pop stardom. The light, plasticky keys barely withstood the furious pounce of Folds’ fingers.  Above the chaos, his airy voice billowed melodiously. The trembling soundscape shot through the wires, beamed up to a satellite, and descended upon the homes of thousands of fans without losing one bite of intensity.

As the night wore on, Folds canned the conventions of a typical stage show. Pulling his hands back mid-song, he frequently brought the music to a jolting halt to speak to his audience. These intimate soliloquies consisted of stories behind his songs, empathetic encouragement for our strenuous times, and even a lesson on piano technique. At times, the performance felt less like a show and more like a conversation with an erudite elder. In one seamless livestream, Folds managed to quench our desperate desire for live music and comfort us in a moment when we all undoubtedly needed it. The show appeared restorative for Folds as well. Having spent the spring and summer quarantining in an isolated apartment thousands of miles from home, he seemed eager to connect with his fans. Signing off, he confessed “It’s good to see all y’all… I like to catch up with y’all.” We sure enjoyed catching up with you too, Ben.

Director Bruce Spiegel mines the archives to present a tender portrait of the jazz great.

Make no mistake, this is a tragedy. Bill Evans: Time Remembered (2015) recounts the life of the inimitable jazz piano great, tracing his rise to professional acclaim and his deep personal and professional relationships to their devastating conclusion, bleeding out in a car on the way to hospital. Why this is a tragedy, Spiegel lets you decide for yourself. 

Marshaling a trove of archival footage and exclusive interviews with Evans’s friends, family and colleagues, the documentary is a collective attempt at divining the man behind the music, the soft-spoken pianist from New Jersey. From the very beginning, Spiegel, speaking through the interview of bassist Chuck Israels, gives us the answer he arrived at after eight painstaking years, “Damn if I know, really. But all the information that’s really important, it’s in the music.” 

Time Remembered is first and foremost a paean to Evans’s music. His all-star cast of interviewees, compromising luminaries like vocalist Tony Bennett and the recently deceased drummer Paul Motian, are most effusive when they discuss Evans’s work. Their praise may not be novel- many critics have extolled Evans’s expressive touch and command of harmony – but this profusion of jazz notables consistently lauding Evans’s deep connection to his music drives the point home. In the words of Marty Morell, Evans’s longest serving drummer, “He’s just so connected to his heart.” We associate genius with surpassing the common man, but Evans’s power lay in his unflinching portraiture of his humanity. You don’t need to understand bebop enclosure or modal jazz to be moved. 

Spiegel lets the music speak for itself. He intersperses discussions of Evans’s work in the context of the 1960s jazz scene with snippets of his recordings. For a full minute, Spiegel makes you sit with “Peace Piece” (1958), a delicate meditation, cradled by the same three chords on the bass clef as the melody winds its way from serenity to bittersweet longing, before it is soothed into resolution. Friend and poet Bill Zavatsky closes the segment, declaring “Bill spoke to me in a way I hadn’t heard anyone talking.” 

And Evans spoke chiefly through his music. Referring to the famous photographs of him bent in concentration over the keys, lyricist and critic Gene Lees says they were “a pretty accurate portrait of his personality”. His playing was unequivocally articulate, but he seemed to physically shrink from the world. In a clip of Evans at the piano, his lanky, spare frame is almost curled in on himself with only his arms extended, long, tapering fingers murmuring across the keys. Photographed with the famous 1961 trio, he does not wear attention with Motian’s suave polish or bassist LaFaro’s affable grin. He hangs back, nursing a nervous smile. Even further back in the archives, Evans rarely breaks with his terse professorial persona. In footage of him smoking, the gaunt planes of his face are rendered in stark monochrome, eyes shaded over by his glasses, the set of his shoulders guarded. In his childhood photos, his neutral half-smile is unreadable. 

With a suite of exclusive interviews, Spiegel edges the curtain back on Evans, the man. Brother of Harry. Mentor to Scottie and Marc. Lover of Ellaine, Nennette and Laurie. Father to Evan. The warmth of his character bleeds through in his praise for LaFaro, enthusing “he was a constant inspiration to me.” You see his deep love for his family, in the uncontrollably fond smile of Debby Evans, Evans’s niece for whom he wrote Waltz for Debby, as she recalls their trips to the beach and her uncle and father, “two jazz brothers”, in animated conversation at the piano. Through Laurie Verchomin’s eyes the audience encounters Evans, the tender romantic, as she describes visiting him in New York at the start of their relationship. But we bear witness also to the corrosive self-doubt he laboured under. Bob Brookmeyer recounts how at the Cafe Bohemian with the Miles Davis Sextet, Evans was crouched in the corner, adamantly refusing to go on, insisting “I can’t play good, I can’t do this”. We see the sensitivity of his character, the weight of his grief. In the aftermath of LaFaro’s car accident, Evans, bewildered and in denial, admits “I can’t comprehend death,” with a trailing hesitance. Evans, falling silent at the piano midsong, tears streaming down his face, on the day his brother committed suicide. Talking to Zavatsky near the end of his life, Evans admits he can find no reason to stay alive. 

But this is no Hollywood tell-all. Rooted in their deference for him as a mentor and bandleader, they keep a respectful distance from the details of his personal life, particularly its painful episodes. Discussing Evans’s addiction, they hint at his “inner demons” without pinpointing them. But there are some telling flashes of emotion. The disdain is evident in Orrin Keepnews’s, Evans’s record producer, voice as he narrates “Almost imperceptibly, he became a junkie.” Lees unblinking intones,“I think he hurt a hell of a lot of people.” 

More than reconstructing his life, Spiegel brings Evans back into conversation. Recordings of Evans talking or playing bookend each segment, and the effect is disconcerting. The audience rarely sees Evans speaking on tape, mostly encountering him as a disembodied voice floating over monochromatic stills, an echo of the past. In his taciturn remarks, we are scrying for hints of his inner world as he moves forward through his turbulent life, while we look back, knowing what comes next. Evans’s work is an uncannily prescient soundtrack to the twists and turns of his life. The tender warmth of “Lucky To Be Me” (1959) accompanies rare childhood photos of him smiling toothily, arm in arm with his beloved brother, Harry. Its bittersweet undertones almost foretell Harry’s devastating suicide, which precedes Evans’s death by a year. Spiegel opens the discussion of Evans’s addiction with a foreboding passage from “NYC’s No Lark” (1963), as his colleagues recount what Gene Lees called “the longest suicide in history.” There in the music, Evans speaks back. 

I left the documentary feeling empty, forlorn. But I couldn’t quite pinpoint what about Evans’s life was so affecting. Was it in the way he passed, the abject irony of him succumbing on the way to rehabilitation? The turmoil of his personal life? Or the cruel symmetry, between the deeply-felt humanity of his work and his self-inflicted cruelty? Perhaps it was all of these, and that we want our heroes to be happy. Even if it was just a mirage constructed by pithy one-liners, a flash of a smile in a yellowing photograph, the sigh of a melody, I saw in Evans a kind, gentle character who might have deserved that happiness. 

In an increasingly distant world, Sylvan Esso welcomes us into their home and their minds through a coffee table performance of three tracks

Indie duo Sylvan Esso released their third studio album, “Free Love,” back in September. Today we revisit their appearance on NPR’s Tiny Desk (Home) Concert in May, performing three songs from their most recent studio album, “What Now.” Sylvan Esso is the electronic indie pop lovechild of singer Amelia Meath and producer Nick Sanborn. Blend Meath’s buttery, breathy voice with Sanborn’s biting beats, and you get songs that are addictively satisfying and full of personality. Sylvan Esso beautifully balances the vocals and the beats beneath them, never letting one overshadow the other.

The duo opens their concert with “Die Young,” and new listeners are immediately launched into their eccentric sound. The two, seated on their blue couch with dozens of audio contraptions atop a coffee table in front of them, exchange playful glances while nonchalantly performing this song about love rescuing someone from suicide. Meath’s distinctive voice shines through over the layers of beats produced by Sanborn, who nods his head along with her. Each time the beat drops on the chorus, we feel a shift in energy from the two, from comfortable to entranced in song, enjoying one another’s company and their creative product. A distant cousin of the autotuned and edited track on the album, this performance appears vulnerable and even more lovely because of it.

After “Die Young” concludes, Meath introduces the duo coolly, starting the next song, “Rewind,” which is, according to her, “about watching TV, and being a kid.” It is now only Meath in the frame, controlling the beats and backing track on her own. Though this song is slower than the first, Meath still delivers a passionate performance, leaning into the camera as though she’s telling the audience a story. Sanborn enters the frame again, only partially, when he grabs his guitar from the corner. He follows his addition of guitar with a reduction of beats, and Meath accompanies the minimalism of this section, lowering her volume. Though this performance is excellent, Meath and Sanborn’s enchantment with one another is what makes their music alluring, so not seeing them interact during “Rewind” leaves listeners feeling unsatisfied.

Sylvan Esso’s final song, “Radio,” is the most popular track of “What Now” thanks to its danceability and catchy chorus. Quite possibly the most charming moment of this performance is when Sanborn accidentally starts the wrong backing track and Meath smoothly says to the camera, “hold on a second,” while Sanborn prepares the right sounds. She counts him in, putting on a cute British accent and looking lovingly at her husband. The couple reveals their goofy side, grinning and giggling with each other as Meath shows off her dance moves. This track is particularly fun, since both Sanborn and Meath are toying with their parts, building upon one another to see what works and what doesn’t. In a way, this is a glimpse of their creative ingenuity, which feels intimate in a world of finely-tuned final products.

A Cornellian at home surveys the Singaporean music scene

Many Singaporeans listen to a cosmopolitan mix of music, yet struggle to sing along to local musicians. Events like Baybeats, one of Singapore’s biggest local music festivals, are a sorely needed chance to spotlight our homegrown talent. 

Due to Covid-19, the nine acts of Baybeats Unplugged have been uprooted from their usual location, the Esplanade, Singapore’s premier performance location which resembles an overturned half of a durian, the fifteen minute acoustic sets posted instead on the event Facebook page. Annette Lee, the first act, has perfectly serviceable vocals, but her lyrics are at once bland and oversaturated with saccharine pep. The seasonal metaphor in “Spring Will Always Come” quickly comes unmoored as she warbles how “it’s pretty cold” in the winter of life while I melt in tropical Singapore’s 95F heat.

I want to like Mannequins, a rock band with a 90s sound and goofy humour. But their anthems can’t achieve liftoff and I wince as their frontman unleashes a gem of tautology, “I know I think I thought I knew,” clinching the dubious honour of the festival’s most insipid lyric. 

At this point, I am ready to give up on Baybeats. But the Facebook algorithm gods do me a solid, shepherding me towards Bakers in Space, a refreshingly experimental surprise landing in the ballpark of indie-rock and psychedelia. The chromatic action in “Citrus” strings tension throughout the song with hovering, disoriented harmonies, perfectly describing a bewildering love affair. The post-chorus offers tantalising nuggets of resolution, only to flicker back into confusion as it alternates between two chords. Their second piece, “Autumn,” is mired in self reflection. Lead vocal Eugene Soh pulls the audience into a swirl of doubt, the harmony brooding. He concludes, “my mind is going,” followed by an instrumental breakdown recalling the innocence of a lullaby. The addictive bass line and crunchy guitar riffs on their third piece, “Mindfield,” affirm this is a band with an abundance of ideas who bear repeated listening. 

Finally, the long-awaited headline act. Baybeats park their best act in the literal basement, the regionally acclaimed Charlie Lim performing in the Esplanade’s garage. He opens with a personal favourite, “Choices.” His voice simmers with tension and heartache, papered over by a gentle calm as he begins a late-night conversation with an old lover, coaxing “keep your eyes on me darling, I’m not a magic trick.” He lets a plaintive edge bleed into the second verse, imploring “I can take complication, if I can comprehend.” Deftly walking the line between plainspoken and poetic, he unravels what it means to nurse love through differences. He employs the same articulate honesty and understated delivery in “Least of You,” a more forthrightly pining ballad. His final song, “Pedestal,” is the mischievous counterpoint to the previous two, a sarcastic, bluesy anti-love song subverting the trope of elevating lovers. He showcases his versatility, taking his voice a notch more theatrical and playing adroitly with rhythm, even swinging easily into a guitar solo. 

I came into Baybeats looking to survey local music. But what is Singaporean music supposed to sound like? The debate is not new. Singapore’s periodic spasms of identity crisis are particularly afflicted by self-doubt, owing to our short independent history, multicultural constitution and colonial hang-ups, among other factors. It’s telling that one of our most visceral manifestations of identity, Singlish, a creole of English, Malay and Chinese dialects, is seen as out of place in most public and professional settings, explaining the dissonance between the performer’s quasi-American accented singing and speaking voices. 

It is unreasonable to throw the full burden of resolving this interminable debate on local artists. At campus music events, I’ve never asked performers to prove their Cornellian or American credentials. Yet, I held Baybeats to a higher standard of crafting a unique, culturally-specific cool without falling into tacky cliches, on top of music-making’s routine complexity. Perhaps, as musicians already know and I am belatedly realising, rather than trying to make good Singaporean music, it is enough to make good music, unabashed of who we are. 

Dominic Lalli (saxophonist) and Jeremy Salken (drummer) make up the technofunk duo, Big Gigantic

As I sat in my common room, alone at 2 AM on a Saturday night, watching the 2020 Bonnaroo live stream (a virtual version of the popular Tennessee festival) and trying to mimic the ambiance of a concert with my roommates’ projector complemented by our fairy lights in strobe mode, I was only further reminded of the strangeness of watching a virtual concert. I was no fool, I knew there was no way to replicate a concert by watching a YouTube live stream, no matter how large the screen. Concerts are about the crowd you’re with, the friends you make, and the ability to be present with an artist whom you love. The headliners of the evening, Big Gigantic, are known for their larger-than-life beat drops and unique combination of jazz and EDM elements. The set, which consisted of the jazzy, electropop duo playing for an hour in front of a green screen, was disingenuous and lackluster, delivering a disappointing experience to both fans and Bonnaroo diehards alike.

The failure of Big Gigantic’s set began with the duo’s lack of engagement with the music. Sure, they bopped their heads to their music and Dominic Lalli, on saxophone, did a few little jigs with his feet, but the two of them were so stationary that I felt awkward trying to dance to their music, which on its own is perfectly danceable. Had the duo been playing jazz or folk, I could have excused their stagnation, but as funky, electropop musicians, their performance requires at least a shimmy. Even Jeremy Salken, though restricted by his drum set, could have delivered a little head roll. The duo’s stale performance brought down my energy level and was ill-fitting when paired with their upbeat music.

The visual elements of Big Gigantic’s performance also screamed “we are in a studio and playing this music for an invisible audience.” Various brightly colored kaleidoscopic and neon backgrounds rotated throughout the set and a Vaseline-coated glow arose from behind the two men as they played their instruments, building a wall between the real and the fabricated. Their attempt to replicate a stage experience was so frustratingly different from watching a band playing amongst visual effects on a stage, on screens around them. If the duo had embraced the intimate setting and tailored their performance to it, their set would have worked. Avid music fans know that study sessions and NPR’s Tiny Desk Concerts can highlight artists’ skills through a cozy atmosphere. In Big Gigantic’s set, however, the intense graphics and the green screen only served as a reminder to me that I was in a dorm room, watching a live stream.

Just when I thought “maybe I can envision myself at a concert if I just close my eyes,” Lalli would speak into his poor-quality microphone and draw attention to the fact that the entire experience was virtual. His voice was muffled and radio-like, nothing like the echoing speech of a performer at a stadium. What made it notably worse was when he tried to get a call and response going with his non-existent audience, gesturing to the camera every time viewers were supposed to echo him. If the duo had embraced their virtual space and adapted a set to suit the circumstances, there would be no awkward moments of open-ended calls and responses. CloZee, another EDM artist who had preceded the duo with her set, did a fantastic job tailoring her performance to the virtual sphere. Omitting herself from the screen, CloZee featured psychedelic visuals that changed color and speed based on the music she was performing. By embracing her inability to replicate a stage experience, she allowed attendees to immerse themselves in the artistic vision of her music. The most of CloZee that appeared was her shadow during parts of the set, allowing the focus to be on her music. Had Big Gigantic given their audience to have a chance to be immersed in the music, I may have imagined myself at a concert, with the booming bass and tantalizing treble of their songs. But as soon as Lalli decided to interject, the guise that Bonnaroo was intending to achieve completely crumbled.

While it is uplifting to see artists and music festivals trying to create free virtual concerts during a pandemic, the execution of these events is too often fabricated and condescending. People attend concerts for more than flashy lights and acknowledgment from musicians, we go so that we can hear our favorite artists deliver their creations directly to us. We don’t need all the bells and whistles, just two musicians, instruments in hand, pouring their soulful sounds into our open ears.